You, Picasso aigu in your summer straw shading blue eyes and sailor stripes, juggling a bubble of cold wine.
Circa ‘50s Wichita. Your mother, Gladys, going for her blue rinse,
Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air
Land dwellers. Sea rovers. Tillers. Spelunkers. Before you ask the questions many ask; have asked since man
Maybe, like Marcel, Monsieur Proust, in Paris, it begins with a bite of a madeleine.
After you uncork him and he appears in a serpentine of white smoke. Before he grants you
The courtly old lady, widowed for decades, and her calico cat, who take each afternoon sun
Between the keys. Between the chords. Between the notes. Between the sound you make
To ask your Self. In the still of the night, whether bright-starred or half-mooned. In the midst of the day,
I’m glad for mine. The long, aquiline form of it. The way it has shaped, informed my face;
Good to mark it each year on the world’s calendar. But I celebrate it every day.
A man rides his bicycle on the sea. Salt rubs the tires. Sun reflects on the soles of his shoes.
Yes. And the rivers. The wind and the rain. The wildflowers. The marshes
Sunny jaunts, now-and-again treats, with cousins, siblings; and parents along but somehow invisible.
All the way. Your eyes, senses, sensibilities. Fill them
